writer, farmer advocate, madwoman

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It was the woman in red dress that decided my restaurant choice. Or, perhaps I should say, it was her face. Behind large wooden doors pushed open to the night breeze were couples and candlelight, and I thought… no. But something caught my eye. Yes, it was her face. At the time it was upturned, with eyes closed, unmoving. In her hand an empty soup spoon poised somewhere between mouth and bowl. It hung in the air like a comma, waiting. I, too, found myself unmoving, holding my breath. She …